The Secret Garden
by Simply A Writer
Summary: England: a man with a heart as large and as bright as the most graceful garden, has a soft spot for a blooming French flower. But did the flower bloom too fast?


**A/N: I'm back again! This story has actually been written by my friend DA's HyperHaruhi121 (whom I will beat with a stick if she doesn't finish this). **

**This is just a sort of prologue to set the mood for the story; told from Britian's point of view. **

**Enjoy and please, all feedback is welcome.**

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The secret Garden, blooming with French flowers,

It was early summer. I was tending to the roses in the garden; we'd had such a lovely spring, we couldn't have asked for more we had enough of everything, enough sunshine to help the flowers grow, and enough water to make the fruit ripen. I was rather proud of my garden; I'd always try to keep it within standards, but over the years I just lost interest. However after retiring from a few of my slightly more demanding hobbies (i.e. drinking the whole world dry) I decided to return to the garden.

I'd grow vegetables for stews down the back, and in my small pond I'd have tiny fish darting about in the gentle sunlight. I loved my garden; we built it together, Mother Nature and I. Considering cooking isn't my forefront, I'd often sell my produce to others - apparently my strawberries taste great in tarts, but I've never tried them in that way… (What with the whole cooking situation...) I would often spend many an evening sat in my garden with a good book and some tea - maybe some strawberries and cream if I was feeling cheeky.

Nobody really knows about my garden, I keep it a secret. See, my house is rather magical like that; my garden may look rather normal too the untold eye, but behind a tall willow at the back of my "Normal" garden is a small door, covered in rust and the wood is worn. But if you knock the door twice and twist the handle all the way and knock once, it opens… Into my secret garden;

When America was growing up I'd take him in there too teach him English literature, I found that he preferred it when I told him the many tales of Peter Rabbit in the secret garden. He'd look around the garden; as if he was waiting for Peter too appear.

He doesn't remember it, but I remember every detail of how he acted in there. However, he wasn't the only person I allowed in the garden… There was one other.

You see my secret garden is full of French flowers; Irises, Lilies and the occasional Rosemary bush. But I didn't plan them there.

You see, French flowers need a special touch, one that is only developed by an actual Frenchman:

Indeed, Francis Bonnefoy planted them there.

He too loves his gardens, and he always had a sudden inkling when somebody was creating their own garden. He never interferes per say, but he does enjoy getting his hands dirty once in a while. He could tell I was creating a garden long before I even knew myself. At first I was just going too use it as an area too grown vegetables and fruits, but he knew that I wanted to turn it into more of a sanctuary than a shop.

He'd stick gardening books under my nose when we'd meet for tea, and if he ever got the chance to take me anywhere he'd take me in his arms and take me to every flower show. We'd often spend Sundays planting shrubs; he'd hum to the seeds as he planted them, telling them how big they'd grow and how they'd be the prettiest flowers in the patch.

I always thought he was the prettiest flower in the patch.

His hair would be as bright as any sunflower in the right light, his skin was as white as the palest daisy, and his smile could rival a rose in bloom. But I never told him.

Our relationship could be described as a "Faux-pas" you see. We did everything backwards: children first, marriage after, but we didn't mind it. I loved him and I remember his love for me.

But he's not here anymore…

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**A/N: What do you guys think? Responses determine how fast I beat my friend for the next chapter! She's said if all is positive, she'll try for Friday!**

**Simply x x**


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